Need
by goblinbird
Summary: Vincent can't sleep. He needs Gilbert. An oversimplification, but I haven't written in years. Unbeta'd, I confess, and rambley, and shamelessly abusive of commas. But the spelling and grammar should be sound, even if my English teacher is rolling in her grave. I like how it came out personally, but reviews, you taking the time to share your thoughts with me, are always love.


Vincent will sleep better- or perhaps it's better to say that Vincent will sleep more deeply- once he's contracted the Dormouse into his service, but despite the new and exciting variety of places he will be found napping throughout the day, he will sleep no more (that is, no more frequently), than he ever has. The Dormouse pounces on that initial drowsiness to take him quickly, but even then the chain will prove to have little say over how deeply he will slumber, or protect him once he begins to dream. And so it has always been- and will always be- easy to wake him, from the settee, or his desk, or the floor of the hall, because those are places, no matter what he may tell himself in waking, his body, his very bones, refuse to lower their guard.

But he won't be contracting the Dormouse for another three years…

Tonight Vincent is exhausted; has worn himself to a shadow the past months flitting through society playing at this game of hearts and minds… Not for Pandora, those jabbering fools, but for Gilbert, who needs their backing and resources… He is to come face to face with the Raven at dawn, and so, having done everything within his power to make sure Gilbert will, and will survive, and will succeed, Vincent rails and rallies against sleep long enough to bolt his bedroom door and wedge it closed with a chair against the few noble minded servants who still cling to the belief helping will help- and his dear foster brothers, who he doesn't have the energy to spare a thought for tonight- strip off his what's easily discarded of his clothes, and fall into his nest of shredding.

He has to sleep.

He burns awake, barely two hours later, tangled in the remnants of nightmares that aren't nightmares but memories but that are _not_, _cannot_ be, _will not be_ memories but nightmares- only nightmares- trembling and aching and sick, and buries the gold gilded scissors already clenched in his left hand deeper into a goose down pillow as he rights himself to full awareness. Awake, he is safe; in… well… as much control as he cares to be. Cause to fear is not his; it belongs to the rest of the world who might think to cross him, to keep from him-oh, but to keep_ from_ him... Vincent is never more dangerous than when he has been dreaming.

For precious minutes he holds very still, staring down the darkness, pulling breaths of the chill spring air in through his teeth, hand working over the handle of his scissors. It's soothing; he palms them open, runs his thumb over the decorative scrolling, past the hinge and along the blade, solid and heated to his touch they are more than an ally, they've become so very much an extension of himself...

Bless his brother, for all he has ever done, and continues to do for Vincent without realizing, but he needs no more protection from his brother and will have none. It is Gilbert who stands in the eye of this storm of intrigue now.

His heart has seen fit to climb up from his stomach when a new horror bubbles up from beneath it and Vincent damns his flesh for giving out on him (tonight of all nights!), damns himself for not bloody thinking to collapse into Gilbert's arms (tonight of all nights!), and cry and plead and make eyes and throw down every trick he's ever found the slightest bit useful for conning his brother into letting him share his bed the way they used to as children, and damns himself for ever being born at all; because it's not his fault, it's not his fault, _but it is his fault_-because if he had never been born with his _damn _misfortunate eye _none_ of this would _ever _have_ happened_!

In a panic, in a rage, Vincent is ripping the chair away from the door before he even realizes he's left the bed, heedless of the cold tile of the hall the carpeting of his bedroom gives way to or that he's dressed only in his shirt from the day before. There isn't time to put on a housecoat, and only the need for silence in the Nightray house slows his steps as he pads down the long hall to his brother's room. If he's too late, if anyone has so much as touched Gilbert… Vincent adjusts his grip on his scissors; he isn't yet old enough to have a pistol they tell him, regardless of how true a shot he is, and so he will have to take them by surprise.

Gilbert's door is closed, and Vincent frowns, hating the few seconds he knows he has to waste getting his breathing under control, quieting the tremors in his hands as he presses himself to the wall and eases the knob into a turn, just far enough for the catch to give, and pulls up slightly, the only way to keep Gilbert's door hinges from screeching like one of the cats he is so terrified of. And that makes Vincent smile- his brother is not a fool, it is a very deliberate strategy, one he will be immediately able to tell is lost should it be tampered with. Only Vincent has snuck into Gilbert's room enough times to have deigned the trick to thwarting it, and the fact that Gilbert has never called him on it warms Vincent's heart.

The door slides open with only the barest shuffle against the carpeting, and Vincent pauses, relieved, if only for the moment. He can hear his brother breathing, slow and steady, as exhausted as Vincent has been if not more so; Gilbert has been running himself absolutely ragged- this last year especially.

He eases the door closed behind him again and quietly, _quietly_, arranges Gilbert's desk chair under the knob, bracing it against the outside world the way he does for himself. It's not quite a full moon, and though Gilbert's windows are all securely closed- Vincent double checks, running his fingers over each latch as he moves like a ghost across the room- the light pours in, chasing away the shadows and lighting up Gilbert like an angel where he sleeps. His brother is very classically handsome, if still filling out; Vincent hovers over him, not quite able to bear touching his brother as he traces the bruises ringing his eyes, and is torn between wishing Gilbert wasn't so terribly obsessive, would stop chasing this ghost of a boy who's long gone if only for a few days, to rest, would take better care of himself, would let Vincent take better care of him… And a rushing, bursting, giddy, guilty joy at knowing this Oz is only a replacement for himself, something to fill the hole in Gilbert's heart where the memories of his real brother, his blood brother, used to be. Really, it is alright that Gilbert doesn't, can't, love Vincent the way he used to, the way only he can, all devouring and unconditional. Vincent has much more freedom to aid his brother without Gilbert dogging his movements; his occasional fussing those moments he remembers Vincent exists at all are stifling enough, and have thwarted a half dozen of his better schemes already.

Here he pauses, considering his precautions, and decides to leave his scissors on the nightstand where Gilbert will see them when he wakes. He's likely to rise first; Vincent really does sleep_ better_ at his brother's side, and it will make him happy. Vincent knows the year they spent in the nursery together Gilbert was constantly, if quietly, fretting about Vincent's preference to sleep with them, worried if his strange little brother didn't decide to murder him in his sleep (silly, Gilbert!), at the best one of them was bound to roll over on the blasted things and bleed out without ever waking up…

The bed dips under Vincent's weight as he slips beneath the coverlet, and Gilbert half wakes as Vincent curls against his brother's back, pressing his face into the soft, warm linen of Gilbert's nightshirt to feel his brother's heartbeat against his cheek, with a confused murmur.

"Mmf, Oz?"

Vincent smiles when Gilbert twists around in the dark, hopeful, even though the disappointment in his brother's eyes when he recognizes Vincent breaks his heart a little. He can't help it. Neither of them can. But then Gilbert rolls in place, suddenly, pulling Vincent close and tangling them both in the blankets, an awkward shuffle but one Vincent somehow doesn't have time to protest-

"Wha-" Gilbert huffs in that special kind of exasperation that's as fond as it is annoyed, "you're freezing Vincent, come here!"

And Gilbert wraps him up in his arms and smooths his hair and tucks him under his chin and Vincent …

Gilbert is safe, and they're together, and tomorrow will matter tomorrow, but this is what Vincent needed tonight.


End file.
